the least worst option (and its unsurprising results)
by Cora Clavia
Summary: Meg Thatcher finds herself in a situation with one very obvious, somewhat inconvenient course of action. Fraser/Thatcher, season 2.
1. Chapter 1

title: the least worst option (and its unsurprising results)  
summary: Well. I have a lot of feelings about Benton Fraser. A. Lot. Of. Feelings. And there are these glorious shining moments when Meg Thatcher is suddenly my spirit animal.  
disclaimer: Neither Due South nor its characters belong to me; this story yields no profit and is intended for entertainment only.

* * *

In retrospect, Meg tells herself, it was her own fault. The entire mess started because she simply didn't have a better idea.

* * *

Of course, she never should have uttered the words _All right, Fraser. But I'm coming with you this time_. In no conceivable timeline do those words ever turn out well.

Sure enough, Meg now finds herself running behind Fraser, who's leading her out of a smoky, seedy bar where they almost just got seen by three men who really, really aren't going to be nice when they find out the two Mounties are following them.

She follows him out the back door, into the alley, but she can still see the men nearby. Damn. No way out. And in a few seconds, they're going to see the two of them.

She hopes Fraser has a bright idea. She's got nothing. There's nowhere to hide.

He looks back at her, eyes wide. "Ma'am?"

"Constable?"

"Do you trust me?"

Her breath catches. "What?"

"Ma'am, do you trust me?"

Well - "Yes."

He doesn't even give her a moment to react. He grabs her arm, pushes her back against the wall, turns her face up to his, and kisses her on the mouth.

Her whole body stiffens, but he doesn't wait for her acquiescence. This isn't the stammering, two-left-footed country boy she's used to. He's confident. Sure of himself. Deliberate. In total control.

And it's unbelievably hot.

She's vaguely, distantly aware of people walking past, her pulse hammering in her chest. The cold night air is stinging her cheeks, a shocking contrast to the heat of his body against hers.

Fraser has absolutely no business being so good at kissing.

He's even earnest in this, his teeth grazing her lip, his tongue swiping over it. It's not acting, no timid attempt for someone else's benefit; he's kissing her thoroughly, like it's his only design in life. Her mouth opens under his and he plunders her mouth, slow and purposeful, like he's determined to get every taste, and her head is spinning.

He lets her mouth go and she has to suck in air. But he's tracing the edge of her jaw with his tongue, slow and painstaking and so insanely perfect that she's not even sure what they're doing.

"Inspector," he murmurs into her ear, and _oh_ that has to be an accident, the way his mouth is brushing her earlobe. "Can you see them?"

Right. Right. "Uh. Yes." It's hard to concentrate and _ohhhhhh_ that's most certainly his teeth on her earlobe now. She fists her hand in the back of his blue shirt, scraping her nails over the taut muscles.

"Tell me when they leave," he whispers.

She lets out a soft noise that's clearly something like _okay_. It's certainly not involuntary. But she's trapped, the brick wall at her back, his strong, lean body pressed up against her front, and as she slides one hand into his hair, she can feel a deep rumble in his chest.

He may be the world's politest man, but his body is crushed against hers, and she can feel the subtle weight between his legs, the heat, even through their clothing. It may be a ruse but it's clearly, well, _serious_ for him.

Meg bites her lip. It's wrong. It's all so, so, so wrong, and she shouldn't -

"Ma'am?"

She swallows. "They're still there."

"Understood."

Meg tries to gather herself, but then his tongue is in her mouth again and his hips are pressing unconsciously into hers and if there was ever a reason this shouldn't be happening, she's completely forgotten it.

* * *

She waits until the men are really gone before telling Fraser to stop. She has to be sure. For safety. It has nothing to do with the fact that he's found the spot behind her ear that drives her absolutely insane.

They slip out of the alley and into the street, and manage to get all the way back to the consulate without looking at each other.

* * *

The next morning, right on cue, there's a knock at her office door. Meg pulls off her reading glasses. She knows who it is. And there's no way around it. "Come in."

Sure enough, it's her errant constable, crisp and clean in his beloved brown uniform, wolf at his heels. Is it just her imagination, or is he standing more firmly at attention than usual?

He looks delicious.

And for God's sake, why does the wolf look like _he's_ sitting at attention?

"Good morning, Fraser."

"Good morning, sir."

Shit. She's staring at his mouth. And from the flush in his cheeks, he's noticed.

"I have my incident report here, sir."

"Thank you. Well. I appreciate your promptness."

Meg takes the paper he hands her, consciously making sure her hand doesn't touch his. It almost seems like he's - is he staring at her lips?

"Yes, sir."

She scans the paper, and only then realizes he's still standing there, motionless. He's not beelining for the door. In fact, he has a trace of something on his face, something -

She decides to take pity on him. Since he did, after all, give her a sort of warning before kissing her senseless. "Is there something else, Constable?"

"I - want to apologize, sir. I am aware that my, ah - actions - last night were a breach of protocol, and I am very sorry to have violated your personal boundaries."

Oh, for crying out loud. Meg ignores the blush rising in her cheeks. And makes herself stop looking at his mouth. Again. Shit. "You have nothing to apologize for, Fraser. You were thinking on your feet. And you even had the presence of mind to first ask my permission."

"Understood, sir." He shuffles his feet awkwardly. "I - um - I just wanted to - to make sure you weren't - that is, I didn't mean to -"

"Constable?"

He clears his throat. There's a definite tinge of pink in his cheeks.

"I'm afraid I was a bit - rough, sir. I'm sorry if I seemed - ah - forceful."

He needs to stop talking. Now.

"You were taking initiative, Constable. You did nothing wrong."

"Understood. Thank you, sir."

"Is that all?"

His breath catches, and his eyes meet hers, so full of -

"Yes, sir."

The air rushes out of her lungs.

"Dismissed."

He nods and leaves. But instead of trotting out at his heels, the wolf sits for a moment, staring at Meg, his head cocked to one side.

There is something _wrong_. That animal knows things.

She very nearly asks _Constable, did you tell the wolf what happened?_

* * *

Benton Fraser's not a stupid man.

He knows what happened wasn't supposed to have happened.

He can't stop thinking about it.

* * *

The dream Meg has that night isn't even a surprise.

She wakes up panting, sweaty, her face hot. Damn it. _Damn_ it.

It's stupid. It's nothing. It's just her brain taking meaningless images and flashing them through her unconscious mind's eye. There's no reason at all to be embarrassed about that lengthy, detailed encounter. It wasn't real. His suspenders didn't really slide down his shoulders. His shirt didn't really end up flung across her office floor. And he certainly didn't do _that_ when he took off her -

She's worked with attractive men before. She's not incapable of functioning in the presence of cheekbones and bright eyes and broad shoulders. Of course, office work in Ottawa never necessitated making out with anyone in a dark alley. Especially not a someone she's starting to realize that she's dangerously attracted to.

Benton Fraser is trouble. Trouble in tall browns, with blue eyes and an unreadably pleasant face. It felt like irritation at first. Irritation is safe. She can deal with that.

But that's slowly been wearing off, until she was - comfortable with him. After all the friction when she'd first gotten to Chicago, after that mess with the egg farmer and Fraser saving her from Henri Cloutier, they'd come to a tacit understanding. She didn't hate him. He could finish her sentences. They'd started circling each other and found common ground.

She's not blind. He's gorgeous. And seems to be completely unaware, which somehow makes him even more attractive.

It's been a tacit understanding with herself as well, though. She's never actually had to sleep her way to the top. Meg is an intelligent woman. And she'd certainly never subject him to anything like the (thinly) veiled sexual harassment she experienced in Ottawa.

This is why they have ranks. Ranks make everything simpler. He's a constable. She's a commissioned officer. It was distance. Distance is clear. And every time he looked at her with that calm, earnest expression, she could brush it off.

Now all she can think about is the way he grabbed her. The heat in his eyes. The nip of his teeth at her ear.

She knows too much now. She knows how he seduces a woman. And she knows that he's good at it.

It was easier when she looked at him like some kind of handsome, backwoods monk. But now that she knows he's a straight man with a healthy sexuality. And he knows exactly how to use his tongue.

* * *

Meg notices, the next day, that Fraser's even less comfortable than usual. Which is saying something.

She lets it go while he's standing sentry duty. If nothing else, it fits the context. After the lunch hour, though, when he comes into her office with his status report, he spends the entire report avoiding her eyes.

"Is something wrong, Constable?"

His face is the color of his tunic, and he's studiously looking at the wall just above her head.

"No, sir."

He's possibly the worst liar she's ever met. "Fraser. Look at me."

He blinks, shuffles his feet, and finally meets her eyes, but she sees his glance dip to her mouth. And suddenly she feels her own face getting warm.

"Dismissed, Constable."

He retreats to his office, and Meg very deliberately fills out a budget report instead of pondering the possibility that Constable Fraser had a sex dream about her last night.

* * *

The Inspector stops in his office to debrief - er, _update_ - him on an upcoming Canadian official's visit. He thinks everything is fine.

When she's finished, they both move for the door at the same time - her to open it, him to open it for her - and in the narrow space, they're suddenly face to face, so close, and it's the same. It's exactly the same.

Fraser swallows. "Ma'am?"

Her eyes flick up to his, and he forgets why this is a bad idea. He's terribly aware of her, the warmth of her body, the gentle fragrance that clings to her like light. And his body vividly remembers the sensation of her body pressed against his, the softness of her curves against his leaner, muscular frame.

She looks up at him through those long lashes, her eyes so dark, her lips just barely parted. She wants to kiss him. He _needs_ to kiss her, a drugging, physical need.

Almost unconsciously, he's leaning forward. His hand steals to her cheek, and her eyes flutter shut. Her breath is hot on his mouth, and he's -

"Inspector? Are you up here?"

Ovitz. His voice is coming from just down the hallway.

They freeze, her eyes flick open, and her face goes in an instant from that beautiful, dreamy expression to pure panic.

She turns and leaves without a word.

Fraser lets out a long breath and slumps back against his desk, curling his hands around the edge. Diefenbaker, watching from the corner, lets out a huff.

Fraser smiles wryly. "I know. Nothing but trouble."

They've reached an impasse. He knows that. It's bad enough that he can't control himself around her. But she feels the same way. This maddening, complicated, beautiful, fierce woman wants him.

He doesn't know what to do.

But he needs to kiss her again.


	2. Chapter 2

She shouldn't be standing in front of his door in this seedy building, this dubious neighborhood.

(Meg had tried to tell herself she wanted to talk to him. Just talk.)

She raises her hand, pauses, and knocks before she can walk away. She hears footsteps, and the soft whine of his wolf. She's been here once before. To apologize for pretending she was already sleeping with him. That was the night she and Fraser really became allies.

The door opens, and he looks - startled.

But not really surprised.

"Fraser -"

"Inspector." She doesn't mean to flinch at the sound of her title, but she can't help it. Of course he notices. He notices everything. He blinks, pauses for a moment. "I - "

He looks like he's about to call her _Meg_. She bites her lip. His eyes go straight to her mouth. He's down to his shirtsleeves, no tie, collar unbuttoned, and her whole body is hotly aware of him.

This was a bad idea.

"- I don't know - why I'm here -"

Meg breaks off, not sure how to finish. Fraser. _Ben_. He's fixated on her, his eyes keen, dark with desire, but he's waiting. Watching. He's bringing that powerful attention fully to bear on her.

And it's that knowledge, that he's studying her, noticing every look, every glance, every catch of her breath and hitch of her muscles, that sends her over the edge.

She reaches for him and he doesn't hesitate.

If last time was deliberate, this is pure desperate need. Meg barely gets to breathe when suddenly her back is up against the door and he's kissing her with a passion that makes her go completely weak. Her knees falter, but he's got her pinned up against the door so securely that his body holds her up. He devours her mouth like he'll die if he doesn't. It's utterly, hotly overwhelming.

When he knee slides between her legs she gasps, clutching at his shirt, her whole body tightening at the sudden hot pressure. He must read it as panic, because he freezes, finally pulling his mouth away, and she draws in a shaky breath.

They're both panting, and suddenly Meg understands his reticence, why he holds himself back. It's not that Fraser doesn't like women, or doesn't enjoy the physical experience. Quite the contrary: he's afraid to let himself lose control and go too far, too fast. Fraser thrives on discipline; his attitude, his work, his personality are centered on self-control.

A whole host of ideas for testing that omnipresent self-control flicker up in her mind, and her face goes hot.

"I'm sorry, Inspector, I'm so sorry -"

He backs a step away and it feels like a gulf, the space and his words settling between them, and Meg realizes he's shutting down.

"Fraser." He's not looking at her. "Fraser. _Ben_."

His first name gives him pause. He finally meets her eyes, his so deep blue, and she knows, without any doubt, that he's as far gone as she is.

* * *

He needs to stop, he needs to think, he needs to get space before he loses complete control and does something wrong (something he's not supposed to want) that he can't undo.

But if she keeps saying his name like that -

His whole body is tightening, and this is too much. It's too fast. He can't -

She's staring up at him with those big dark eyes, and he has to walk away right now because he can't stop himself. This - this whatever it is, obsession? need? infatuation? something far scarier? - developed so quickly. So very, very quickly. Five minutes of frenzied desperation, up against the wall in a dark alley, and suddenly he needs her like oxygen. The soft tendrils of affection had been creeping up inside him, delicate, like spring wildflowers, but now it's in full bloom, riotous and deep and overpowering.

"Ben. Please." Her voice is firm. "It wasn't a mistake."

He chooses his words carefully. "Inspector, want you to understand that - that it's not that I don't want - I mean - "

He doesn't know what he's trying to say. He doesn't know what to think. He wants her. He wants her so badly he can't think. And that's the problem. Because the last time he lost control, the last time a beautiful dark-haired woman took his sense and his reason and left him mindless, he nearly lost everything.

He's lived his work, and he's always done better with tangibles. Dogsleds. Physical apprehension. Tracking. Wilderness survival. Thatcher's from a different world. She deals in words and all their subtleties; subtext, inference, hypotheticals and subjunctives. The world of politics.

Maybe that's why he's so very hesitant. Meg Thatcher is tangible. He desperately wants her. But the potential trouble that could result isn't something he can outrun, or chase down and throw into prison, or patiently talk into submission.

He doesn't know how to make this work. Because he's never succeeded in it before.

"It's not that I don't - feel that way," he says quietly. "But I could never - I couldn't - if I thought there was the slightest chance that you would regret -"

Her face is soft, and he sees that she understands what he's so ineptly trying to express.

"Do you trust me?"

They're his words.

She's -

"Fraser, do you trust me?"

He lets out a long breath. His chest is tight, knotted up in hopeless, twisting affection for this woman who's his perfect opposite in so many ways. She's looking up at him with those big eyes, so wide and dark and gleaming, and he's lost.

But the question she's asking - it's easy to answer.

It's the only thing that makes sense.

"Yes."

* * *

It's slower this time. Measured. Cautious. Meg leans in and kisses him once, twice, a third time, until she feels the tension melt out of his shoulders.

He responds eagerly but lets her lead, gives her free reign to guide the kiss, deepen it as she wants, and it's not long before they're both breathing hard. His hands are settled on her waist, gentle, not controlling, and after everything, after all the hesitation, she just _wants_ him.

She slides her hand over his chest, feeling the hitch of his muscles under her fingers, and slowly slips his braces off his shoulders. For a second she's not sure - this _is_ what he wants, isn't it? - is it too fast? -

But he kisses her deeply, and she feels him shrug the straps off, letting them fall as she starts on the buttons of his shirt. She can feel him tugging at her jacket, patiently working it off her shoulders, and then finally it's on the floor, he's got her shirt untucked, and she has him down to his undershirt.

He pauses, his hands coming to trap hers on his chest, and she takes a deep breath. He wants to know. He wants this to be sure.

"Meg -"

There's no going back.

She curves her hand around the line of his jaw, pulling him down to her for a long, slow, deliberate kiss.

She can feel his mouth curve against hers, feel the smile on his lips as he kisses her back, and then he's slipping his arm around her waist, pulling her with him, walking her back to his humble bedroom. She raises her arms, letting him pull her shirt over her head and toss it aside.

He pulls her to him then, sinking onto the bed with her, and Meg lets out a shuddering sigh and just gives in.


	3. Chapter 3

He has no words.

Afterwards, Fraser finds himself curled around her, his larger frame dwarfing her smaller, delicate shape as she drifts off into sleep. The bed's small, too narrow for any kind of space between them, and he watches, mesmerized, as a bead of sweat trickles into the hollow between her breasts. He's tugged the sheet over them, but of course the image of her nude body, slim and pale and rolling rhythmically under his, is permanently written into his memory.

He hasn't been with a woman since Victoria. It feels so long ago, another life, a brief, fleeting few days when he really thought he could have something just by wishing. Even the memory of those three days seems like a dream now. It was infatuation; he'd been drugged by the mystery of a lovely woman, charmed by her beauty and musical voice and the physical spark between them. It ended so badly he'd shut himself off, determined not to lose himself again.

But this is different.

Meg - it still feels strange to call her that, even now, in his own mind - lets out a long breath, her eyelashes fluttering. His mouth curves into a wry smile. Their first interactions couldn't have possibly been less romantic.

And yet here she is, asleep in his bed, and he's lying here beside her with his heart hammering in his chest.

His mind is whirling, but his body is deeply tired, sated, and it's not long before his eyes grow heavy and he dozes off himself.

* * *

Meg wakes to find Fraser's arm around her waist, his breath ruffling her hair, and Diefenbaker leaning over the bed, sniffing her free hand curiously.

Her face gets hot, though she knows it's foolish to feel like they've been caught by his dog. Wolf? She can never quite decide how to feel about this animal. But right now he's blinking at her calmly, nosing shyly at her fingers, and when she reaches out and gently scratches his ears, he lets out a soft, pleased whine.

Seemingly satisfied that she's friendly, Diefenbaker licks her hand and snuffles against her palm, batting at it with one paw. Does her want her to play? Does he want to go outside? Is he hungry?

Fraser's dead to the world behind her, so Meg gingerly slips out of his embrace, biting her lip as he rolls, the covers falling to his waist. She just spent a lot of time and energy exploring his body, learning what it can do, and it's tempting to just slide back into the bed and wake him up. Creatively.

But she's chilly; the window in the kitchen is open, and the night air is cool. She sits up, still holding the sheet over herself, even though there's no point, since that wolfdog probably just saw everything she and Fraser just did to each other. Every single thing. Her face gets warm.

"Please tell me you're not scarred for life," she murmurs. Diefenbaker huffs softly and settles his head on her thigh. She strokes his soft fur, watching the animal relax into her touch. He mostly ignores her at the consulate; once, while Fraser was standing sentry duty, she'd poked her head into his office to find a form, and discovered Diefenbaker. The wolf was curled up in the corner, quiet, half-asleep. He looked up when she walked in, and she'd held her breath, but he'd simply let out a soft snort and settled back down, blinking slowly.

Their clothes are still scattered around his little bedroom. But there's a blue plaid shirt hanging on a hook in his closet. Meg pulls it on, buttoning herself into the soft flannel. It's worn, the fabric smooth from wear, and it smells like him, that clean combination of soap and freshness and something else, something she has no word for other than _north_.

She slips back between the covers, curling up against his long frame, and falls asleep to the sound of his even breathing.

* * *

Fraser wakes up at five, as usual, but this morning he has a bedmate.

He opens his bleary eyes to discover Meg Thatcher beside him.

She mumbles something unintelligible, burrowing further into his chest. She's wearing his blue shirt, and it's rumpled and too big and completely adorable on her.

He knows there's a long conversation they need to have, a rational discussion of how best to balance this - this - well, _this_ - with the structure and protocol of the RCMP. The soft, sleepy woman draped warmly over his chest is still his superior officer. There are boundaries they need to set. Decisions to be made about how they behave around each other. She can give him orders at the consulate; he can roll her body under his and kiss every inch of her when they're in bed. It's figuring out everything in between that could get particularly complicated.

But she was right. He trusts her.

As different as they are, Fraser knows they're together in this. They face the same risks. And from their first heated, desperate kisses in that dark alley to the moment she curled up in his arms and fell asleep, he's felt safe with her.

He doesn't mean to wake her, but as he tries to carefully untangle himself from her, she lets out a soft breath, scrunching her nose, and her eyes flutter open.

"Mmmm." A drowsy smile crosses her mouth. "Too early. Why are you awake?"

"I always wake up at this hour, ma- ah." He flushes. "Meg."

But his slip of the tongue doesn't seem to faze her. She props her head up on her hand, watching him with amusement in her eyes. "Of course you do. Anything else would be positively unseemly."

"Are you mocking me?"

"Yes, I am." She pokes him in the chest, and he laughs, delighted. Even all soft and bright-eyed in his bed in the wee hours, she still has that sharp sense of humor she tries to hide. "Give me one good reason to be awake this early."

He can think of several, and they're all fairly similar.

"Well, I believe I should point out that you've stolen my shirt," he murmurs, reaching to start unbuttoning. Her lips part, her cheeks going rosy, and he can't stop himself from leaning in for a kiss.

"I have." She bites her lip. "You want it back?"

"It _is_ my favorite shirt." He slips the buttons open one by one, skimming his hands over her bare skin.

"Is it, now?" She swings one thigh over him, pushing him down to straddle his hips easily. "You might have to arrest me. Maintain the law, Constable."

He grins, sliding his hands up her thighs.

"If I must."

* * *

_fin_


End file.
